


Lucky Strikes

by VesperNexus



Category: The Spy Who Came in from the Cold - John Le Carré
Genre: Angst, Interrogation, M/M, Threats, dark!fiedler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 08:17:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11100597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VesperNexus/pseuds/VesperNexus
Summary: He sounded almost excited. “I needed to break him like this Alec – you can break his arm, and it will heal. Yes, it will take time and it will hurt. But this-” he motions to Leamas’ forehead, “once this breaks, you cannot heal it.”Wrapped in that lithe, slender frame, hidden behind that pretty, boyish face was a threat to the Circus that was all too frightening.Or, Leamas watches Fiedler interrogate a man for the first time.





	Lucky Strikes

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not too sure how I feel about it - but it needed to happen. Not like I should be studying or anything. Took some liberty with OCs, which I don't really like doing but oh well. There's also no gay love here, which is unlike me. But, you know.
> 
> Enjoy :)

Fiedler was leant up against the fireplace, blue suit hugging his slender figure notably. His head was tilted, the flames casting the pale angles of his face in too many shadows. His arms were folded over his chest.

Leamas lounged comfortably against the couch, Steinhager cradled in one hand. Their conversation had dwindled with time, eaten up by the pervasive silence. He briefly wondered what his companion was thinking about. For once, Fiedler’s voice was quiet but his eyes were not. Leamas stared at him through his drink-induced haze. He looked too contemplative.

Leamas wondered if Fiedler was still in the room with him, really. These moments were few and far between: his companion was stripped to a single mask. In the months coming to know Fiedler, Leamas established he had a variety of facades to suit every occasion. So far, he had identified the lawyer, the journalist, the interrogator, and this. He did not have a name for this mask yet, the one that required Fiedler to ignore Leamas’ existence and pass the time in quiet.

It unnerved him. He had initially wrangled Fiedler into one category: Communist. They were all the same, he imagined. Peters was, Ashe was, all the other bastards behind the curtain were. They had one face, one identity on this side of the wall. How they acted on Monday they acted on Wednesday, irrespective of what happened Tuesday. They were easy.

But not Fiedler.

Fiedler seemed to have a dress for every occasion. He hoped Control knew.

Leamas was snapped from his musings by the creak of the door. It seemed Fiedler was too – his head tilted in the direction of the sound, the fire dancing eerily off his pale skin. There were footsteps.

“Fiedler,” a burly man entered the lounge, followed by the guard. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, and his greying hair was slicked back too far. The dangerous glint in his eye told Leamas not to underestimate him.

Fiedler simply raised an eyebrow, readjusting his gaze to the fire, as if the man was not worth a moment of his time. “Ja, Comrade Michael?”

Leamas knew that tone: playful, painfully sarcastic. Fiedler saved it for the men Leamas called ‘little people’.

The man looked an inch short of murderous. “I need you to interrogate Blake.”

Fiedler unfolded his arms, and rested his left on the mantle above the fireplace. He didn’t look at Michael. Leamas only knew one ‘Blake’ but the man was-

“I’m busy,”

Michael bristled. Leamas half-believed he would stalk across the room and slam Fiedler against the wall.

“Fiedler.”

Fiedler sighed theatrically. A smile danced across his lips. Leamas knew it wasn’t genuine.

“We talked about me cleaning up your mess.”

Leamas would not have thought it, but Michael had the audacity to burn red. Whether embarrassment or anger, he could not tell.

“Yes.”

“And what did we agree?” Fiedler spoke quietly, silkily, as if to a child.

Michael hesitated. “I need your help, Fiedler.”

Fiedler finally looked up, and the coldness in his eyes sobered Leamas. No longer was he warmed by the fire.

Michael didn’t say anything. He seemed to expect the reaction. “I need your help.”

“Fascinating. There’s the door,” Leamas could not help the simmering amusement. Fiedler certainly had a way with people.

“This is the last time.” Michael would not take no for an answer. He paused. “Please.”

Fiedler looked at him, _really_ looked. The two men faced each other as if there was no one left in the room. “Why are you so desperate?”

“They’re not happy with me,” the man replied quietly, and Leamas could see something swell behind his gaze: fear. “This was _my_ plan – but I overestimated. I can’t…” he trailed off, and Leamas noticed the decision in his companion’s eyes.

No one moved for a moment. The tension seemed thick enough to slice with a blade.

Fiedler suddenly turned back to Leamas, a grin on his face. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

Michael seemed to inflate with relief. Leamas was overcome with a sudden, burning curiosity.

“I’d like to watch,”

Fiedler stopped mid-movement. He considered for a moment. “Sure,” he replied quietly.

*

Michael drove them in a stuffy DKW. “Blake is-”

“I know who he is,” Fiedler interrupted. He sat in the back with Leamas, so close their arms brushed. “Is he married?”

Leamas wondered why is mattered, “No.”

“Girlfriend?”

Michael sighed. “Martha. They shared a flat in London, but we got to her too late. We haven’t mentioned her to Blake yet – not until he can get our hands on her. Kieves thinks Blake sent her up to Holland.”

“Mmm? Why’s that?” Fiedler replied distantly.

“Her mother was Dutch- died from lung cancer a couple of years ago. Has an estate up there.”

“Does she smoke?”

“Well of course Fiedler, she had _cancer-”_

“Not her _mother_ ,” he replied impatiently, “Martha – does she smoke? What does she smoke?”

Leamas could not see the relevance in this line of questioning, and it seemed neither could Michael. He obliged regardless.

“Kieves found packets of that Western crap in one of her handbags – something ‘Strike,’”

“Lucky Strikes,” Leamas supplied helpfully. Fiedler turned to him with a smile,

“You have terrible taste, my friend.” Before Leamas could correct Fiedler – they most certainly were not _friends_ – Michael had pulled the car in park.

“I just need the name of his agent in Macau – that’s all.”

Fiedler smiled. “So it is. Do you have any Lucky Strikes on you?”

*

They walked through a maze of corridors until they came to a halt in front of an unassuming grey door. Fiedler’s pocket now housing a half-empty packet of Strikes.

Michael pulled the key from his coat and began to unlock it. “Kieves is already had a go at him – so have me and section 5.”

Fiedler raised an eyebrow and Leamas briefly wondered who section 5 was. “That seems unnecessary,”

“We were getting desperate.”

Fiedler turned to him. “Stay in the corner, in the shadows. I don’t want him to take too much notice of you.” He turned to Michael, “I want two chairs.”

The door swung open, and he followed Fiedler inside.

The room was large, cold, and its walls were made of colourless concrete. There was a single naked bulb flickering, casting the room in ominous shadows. It smelt damp. It had a very Russian feel.

By the right wall, a figure had his knees pulled up to his chest, silver chains entangling his wrists. Leamas moved silently to the corner, in the shadows just as Fiedler had asked.

The interrogator moved to the centre of the room, in front of the man. The man did not look up.

After a few moments in the heavy silence, Michaels and a guard came back with the chairs Fiedler had asked for. Fiedler had both placed opposite one another. After they left, Fiedler walked slowly towards the man, and to Leamas’ amazement, drew a key from his pocket and unlocked his chains.

The man looked up, and Leamas froze.

In the poor light, Leamas could make our the harsh features behind the bearded face. Blake. It _was_ him. they had worked together years ago – there was Cairo and Ukraine. He was a good man, notoriously secretive, and if Control’s accounts were accurate, impossible to crack in an interrogation.

Fiedler seemed unconcerned by the much larger - now _free_ prisoner. He simply walked back to the centre of the room and sat in one of the chairs.

“The sooner we finish this, Mr. Blake, the sooner I leave you in peace.” In that moment, Leamas realised Fiedler had already worn a new mask. There was a diffidence in his voice he had never before heard – as if he was unwilling to be here, uncertain of his place.

There was a moment of silence before Blake dragged himself to his feet and sat on the chair a metre away from his interrogator. Leamas could see his bruises, his missing teeth. He pushed down the surge of anger that arose within him. Bake had been his friend once.

Fiedler stared at the man, and he stared back. He moved slowly, pulling something from inside his coat. Blake tensed. Fiedler pulled out the Lucky Strikes.

He placed one between his lips and lit it, silently offering one to Blake. The man ignored him.

Fiedler’s cheeks hollowed as he drew in the tobacco, blowing the smoke away from Blake’s face. He seemed to enjoy the moment.

“I’d like to know something, Mr. Blake,” he spoke perfectly innocently. Leamas shuddered.

“Go to hell,” the reply was venomous, immediate. Fiedler chuckled – his laugh soft and boyish, almost harmonic.

“Not yet, I’m afraid.” He pulled in another drag of smoke. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Strike?” The packet was still in his hand. He lifted it to the light and examined it – “They really are quite terrible,” he smiled, almost to himself. And then, as if in passing, “They were Martha’s favourite, weren’t they?”

Blake’s head snapped up. Leamas stuffed his clenched fists deep into his coat.

“What do you know about Martha?”

Leamas could imagine how this would fall together. Clever. Fiedler looked surprised. “There’s no need to be rude, Mister Blake. She was perfectly pleasant.”

Blake looked ready to leap from his seat. “Very accommodating in our last chat. She made tea and everything,”

“You son-of-a-”

“She’s _fine_ ,” he spoke as if he was consoling a friend. “Almost got away from me – quite clever you were, trying to send her East.”

Blake’s fingers dug into his palms.

“Where did she say? Ah yes!” He smiled softly, as if it had just come to him, “Holland.”

“Leave her alone.”

“How can I? You have gift-wrapped and left her on my porch, Mr. Blake.” _You_. Leamas knew Fiedler was isolating him – preying on his guilt like a bloodhound. It seemed to be working.

“ _Leave_ her.”

“Tell me about your man in Macau,”

Silence. Leamas figured Fiedler had gone for the jugular blind.

“Alright.” He conceited. Fiedler smiled almost sadly. He really was good at this. “I am sorry, you know. I almost wish we hadn’t caught you-” Leamas’ eyes narrowed. “It must hurt to know you’ll never see them again.”

 _Them_.

Blake’s breath caught. _Them._  Who did Fiedler mean? Blake didn’t have children – or did he?

“Or rather – they’ll never see you.” He sounded terribly regretful. Leamas could scarce breathe through the suspense. “I know you tried to send them away ahead of Martha – but I’m afraid you were far too… slow.”

“Don’t _touch them_ ,” Blake spit, halfway off his chair. “I swear _if you_ or _any_ of you goddamn rats behind the curtain-”

“Oh, Mister Blake-” Leamas could not reconcile this regretful version of Fiedler, “We both know that’s not up to _me._ ” It’s up to you. It goes unsaid.

Blake is still too hesitate, so Fiedler nailed his coffin shut.

He sighed quietly, cigarette hanging loosely between two thin fingers. He leaned back into his chair, as if his strings had been cut. “I told them, you know?” He spoke almost to himself, distantly, reflectively. “I said to them – he isn’t _going_ to talk. Not if you sent him all their ears and fingers – _he isn’t going to talk_.” He huffs out a laugh. It echoes eerily. “That’s where we’re alike,” he pulled in a drag as if it was as necessary as breathing. The smoke danced symbolically beneath the naked bulb. “You and I.” Leamas wondered where this was going. Blake did not respond, but Fiedler seemed undeterred.

“I’m a Communist and you’re a Capitalist yes, this much we know-” he was almost factual, “but in the end, we both know: the needs of the many _far_ outweigh the needs of the view.” Ah. There is was. “I told them. No matter how much he values the _sanctity of life,_ no matter all they-” he waved one hand dismissively, “Blake and Martha – no matter how much they subscribe to Christian values – the masses, his _Circus,_ they’re always going to be more important.”

The room is too quiet. Blake looks undone, fraying at the seams. Leamas could see what Fiedler was doing: he was provoking him. Blake hated the Reds. He would fight tooth and nail to prove he was not like them.

“I understand, you know?” Fiedler stood up, putting out the Strike beneath the heel of his shoe. “We’re all the same, in the end. It really is a shame.”

And as he turned to walk away, it happened. Leamas had never seen anything like it: like a man re-energised, reborn, Blake stood so quickly his chair toppled. His fists were clenched into Fiedler’s coat before he took a breath.

Fiedler does not seem surprised. In fact, he is almost expectant.

“Give them _back_ to me,” Blake growled.

Fiedler only lifted his hands, and to Leamas’ amazement, placed them atop Blake’s. He was consoling him.

“That is the joke, isn’t it?” He spoke softly, sadly. “All you need to do is _take_ them,” he whispered.

Leamas could scarce believe it. Blake fell at Fiedler’s feet, breathing hard. In all the time Leamas had known him – Blake seemed unbreakable, untouchable. And he had been – until Fiedler. He hadn’t even raised a hand.

“Ernest, his name is _Ernest Mark,”_ and so opened the dam of secrets Blake could no longer contain. And like that he gave and gave and gave, soothed by Fiedler’s expertly-timed soft prompts. Fiedler had knelt in front of him, easing all the hidden truths from his lips, one hand placed gently on his shoulder. It was frightening.

He gave more than Fiedler asked of him, sometimes more than Leamas himself knew.

Fiedler had guided him back into his chair as he listened intently. When he knew all he wanted to know, he stood and nodded to Leamas in the corner.

“And my children? When can I see them?”

Blake grounded himself in his resolve. The tear tracks on his cheeks were difficult to look at.

Fiedler looked down at the man in the chair, and raised a single eyebrow quizzically. Leamas suddenly felt sick.

“Children?” He sounded confused. “What children, Mr. Blake?” The prisoner’s head snapped up. “I haven’t got your children.” He sounded amused.

“You – you said-” Leamas could barely make himself listen. Blake sounded broken.

Fiedler chuckled his familiar, playful chuckle. “Oh, Mr. Blake – they’re not _here._ We intercepted them in the East. They did go before Martha – they’re with the Soviets.” Horror painted Blake’s expression. He looked almost physically sick. “We don’t have a say in what happens to the children of men like you. I’m sure they would have appreciated the gesture though.” Blake began to sob. Leamas felt dizzy. Fiedler had a cold, cold look in his eyes. Calculating. Detached. “It’s probably the best they don’t grow up in this world, anyway.”

Fiedler walked away, and Leamas followed him lethargically. Behind them, Blake knelt sobbing and cursing and an irrevocably broken man, reduced to less than a shadow of who he was.

*

Michael was waiting for them outside.

“Well?” He seemed nervous.

“Ernest Mark.” He looked relieved.  “He has children. I’ll put everything in my report.”

“Fiedler – Jens – thank you.” Fiedler looked at him for a moment, but didn’t offer him the curtesy of a response.

Michael drove them back in the DKW, and slowly, Leamas’ numbness turned to anger.

*

“Why?” They were outside, Fiedler walking ahead of Leamas to the door. Leamas barely recognised his own voice. “Why did you do that?”

Fiedler turned back, looking confused and infuriatingly unassuming. “It was an interrogation, Leamas. I interrogated him,”

Leamas shook his head, “Why did you tell him his children were in Soviet hands? How did you know he _had_ children? Why-” he broke off, breathing hard.

The wind ruffled Fiedler’s hair. He pushed it uselessly from his eyes. “He gave up Martha too easily,” he looked unperturbed, “that’s how I knew.” When Leamas did not move, Fiedler sighed. “In my experience – a spy will push everything they do not prioritise to the front. They gave you information which is true, yes, effective for collateral sometimes, yes. But everything important they bury deep, so deep by the time you get to the place they are hiding it – you don’t see anything, because you feel you already _know_ everything.”

Leamas still did not respond. Fiedler continued.

“So when I asked him about Martha – and he did not divert my attention, he had given her up too easily. He was willing to sacrifice her, to trick me into believing the Circus was more important. But there was a layer beyond the Circus – I knew it was a topic he dare not broach. What could it be?”

Leamas suddenly felt so tired. “His children,” Fiedler nodded. “Why, then? You had the information – why did you lie to him?”

Fiedler smiled, and the terrifying coldness was back in his eyes. Leamas shuddered.

“Because I wanted to break him, Alec.”

Leamas had not realised he had slammed the younger man against the door until he heard the thud. There was a sharp intake of breath but Fiedler did not resist him.

“You sadistic bastard,” he hissed in his face. Fiedler had the audacity to look annoyed. Leamas did not let go of his collar.

“Is hypocrisy a curtsy amongst the English?” he mocked. “Of course I broke him, Leamas – Blake is a _fountain_ of information. He is a locked door. We open the door. Drag a secret from within. Close the door. He has time to _lock up_ again.” He shook his head at Leamas like he was a child, “why not just _break_ the lock?”

Fiedler was on his tip-toes. “He’s-”

“He’s on the _other side_ of this war, Leamas. If he thinks the Soviets have his children – and they are still alive – then we control him. We flood the dam. Little fingers and little ears are easy enough to come by – feed him ‘proof’ every once in a while and we have a trump card – if you will.” He sounded almost excited. “I needed to break him like this Alec – you can break his arm, and it will heal. Yes, it will take time and it will hurt. But this-” he motions to Leamas’ forehead, “once this _breaks_ , you cannot heal it.”

Leamas considers hitting him. Fiedler is young, but he is more cruel and calculating than anyone he had ever known. More dangerous. With every word Leamas feels decentred.

He had made a man come undone in _minutes –_ one of the most unbreakable men Leamas had ever worked with. And with a few choice words, careful prompting, Fiedler had reduced him to less than the cigarette stub he crushed beneath his heal.

“Is that all men are to you? Things to be dissected?”

“Oh don’t sound so _disgusted-”_ Fiedler was becoming impatient. “Is it better how you do it in the West? Would you rather I pulled out his fingernails and flayed the skin from his hands? Perhaps I should have found Martha and had her shot in front of him.”

He let him go. Fiedler re-adjusted his coat and smoothed the creases Leamas made.

He looked at Leamas a final time, “I don’t regret it, Leamas. What I do. He _is_ on the other side. I do not pity him, just as I don’t pity those who came before him and those who will come after.”

He walked away, leaving Leamas in the cold. His heels began to sink into the moist soil and the wind made him shiver. He looked at the door Fiedler had left open.

In the dark, he realised – there was someone far more dangerous than Mundt. For all his ruthlessness and cruelty, Fiedler was infinitely more clever and calculating. Wrapped in that lithe, slender frame, hidden behind that pretty, boyish face was a threat to the Circus that was all too frightening.

Leamas become cold, and it was not because of the wind.

Yes, Fiedler was infinitely more dangerous than he could have expected.


End file.
